


A Demon a Day

by shomaun_ho



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Crack, Deal with a Devil, Demon Yuzuru, Humour, M/M, Vegetable-related trauma, at least i hope it's funny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shomaun_ho/pseuds/shomaun_ho
Summary: 'An apple a day keeps the doctor away, that’s what Itsuki had said. Shoma would really rather not resort to such drastic measures.'**(Or, Olympic figure skater Shoma Uno sells his soul to a demon so he doesn’t have to eat his greens anymore)





	A Demon a Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hi sorry this is half done and also that I haven't posted anything in forever, and also that this is a bit stupid, but the thought wouldn't leave my head, and so I will subject all of you to it, too
> 
> i love Shoma and his disdain for veggies and I'm positive he's not THIS much of a baby, I just needed him to be ridiculous for my own ridiculous reasons

 "This is getting...a little out of hand," the doctor had mumbled, mostly to himself, flicking through the pages of Shoma's file and frowning down at his notes. Shoma fiddled in his chair, chewing absentmindedly at his nails. _They're getting a little long_ , he thought lazily; maybe time for a trim, later. After a nap.

Medical appointments like this one were very routine for Shoma. A regular once-over, testing form and function to spot any kinks and iron them out before they had the chance to unfurl into anything problematic. Shoma was used to the monotony of them; a polite hello for formality, tests and tests and more tests, results and results and more results, a polite goodbye for formality, rinse and repeat.

It was boring, but it was necessary. This time, though, the doctor seemed...troubled. Maybe Shoma should have been a little more concerned that their bi-annual tedium had been somewhat disrupted, but as it stood he was not—he was more concerned with the early hour, and rectifying the severe lack of sleep he'd had the night before.

The doctor sighed—a short, stunted thing, almost a huff—and looked up at Shoma over his glasses.

"When did you last eat fresh food, Shoma? Fruits, vegetables?"

Shoma blinked owlishly at him. It seemed like a rather stupid question, honestly, and a little pointless coming from his _doctor_ . These were the kinds of things that Demi bugged him about— _Eat a carrot, Shoma. You can't live off meat and rice, Shoma. I've seen you eat tomatoes, Shoma, please just have_ **_one._ ** The kinds of things he thought might make training easier, more efficient, little niggles about Shoma's eating habits that bothered him, not _medical emergencies_. Nothing the doctor should be looking so concerned about.

Shoma shrugged at him.

"I don't remember," he said, which was true. It had been...a while, for sure, since he'd last forced down anything green or leafy. Honest truth, Shoma tried very, very hard to forget each and every instance in which a vegetable had passed his lips.

The doctor looked at him with something between exasperation and incredulity, and slid his file onto the desk, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. That was a very Demi-move, too. Shoma wondered if perhaps the two of them had been _talking_.

"Your blood pressure," the doctor began, pointing at some numbers on the chart. Shoma's gaze flicked down to them, then back at the doctor, waiting. Numbers meant very little, in most contexts outside of figure skating, and so he waited, patiently, for the doctor to give an explanation—some justification for bringing up Shoma's perfectly adequate eating habits.

"It's...high."

From his tone, and the general air of gravity about him, Shoma took it to mean that high, in this particular instance, did not mean _good._  He waited some more, and the doctor took his silence in exactly the way Shoma had intended—as an invitation for some elaboration.

"Higher than it should be, for someone with a lifestyle like yours. You're a healthy weight, you exercise well—obviously, and you don't smoke, you rarely drink, you've got a good handle on your stress management." The doctor reeled off, eyes roving over the notes in Shoma's file. "You're already doing most of the things we'd recommend, short of medication."

Shoma bristled. He didn't _like_ taking medication, not if he could help it. It was troublesome.  Most medications came with a whole host of unpleasant side effects, little things that threw him off, or else big things, problems he could neither ignore nor function through. And it seemed so wholly unnecessary, to take pills or liquids or—heaven forbid— _shots_ , for a problem that was giving him no real problems at all.

All of this, he told the doctor, who waited him out diligently, though Shoma could see the hint of impatience brewing in the deep, pinched lines of his face, the purse of his lips, the twitch at the corners of his eyes.

"I feel fine," he said. "I don't need medication. I don't see why anything needs to change right now.

The doctor gave him a long, measured look, as though he were sizing him up. And then he bent to open a drawer in his desk, and fished out thin leaflet. He opened it, flipped it to find the section he was looking for, and read aloud.

"Trouble sleeping," he began. "Sexual dysfunction." He looked over the paper to meet Shoma's eyes, then, and Shoma's cheeks warmed unpleasantly. "Headaches, chest pain, vision troubles, dementia, kidney failure, heart failure, stroke—all potential consequences of prolonged high blood pressure."

Shoma felt a nasty little shiver run down his spine. The doctor must have noticed, because his gaze softened as he closed the leaflet, and his tone, when he next spoke, had gentled too.

"You might feel fine now, but with problems like this—it's better to treat them as soon as they're noticed, to avoid the risk of complications further down the line."

Shoma narrowed his eyes at the doctor. This routine visit had taken a decidedly un-routine turn, one Shoma had been completely unprepared for. Perhaps he'd have to take a longer nap than planned, once this was over. To de-stress.

"It's not a huge problem now," the doctor said to him. "You're not in any immediate danger. But left untreated, this can create problems that are difficult, or even impossible to reverse."

Shoma chewed at his lip. _Not a huge problem_ was good. _Not in any immediate danger_ was very good. _Impossible to reverse,_ however, sounded very not good at all, and it was this phrase that was hindering Shoma's plans to do absolutely nothing about the current situation.

"How do you treat it?" He asked, slow and hesitant. _Fresh food_ and _medication_ had already been entered into the conversation; whatever his options were, Shoma knew he wasn't going to like them, not one single bit.

The doctor eyed Shoma's file again.

"Well, like I said, you're not in any immediate trouble. And your risk of developing complications at this stage is low—blood pressure notwithstanding, you're in perfect health. I don't think medication is necessary, right now."

Shoma sighed out a long, relieved breath. The doctor bit back a grin.

"But," he said. "We're going to have to talk about some...lifestyle changes."

It's almost funny, how much _lifestyle changes_ sounded like _vegetables_ to Shoma.

"...Right," Shoma said. "What—what kind of changes?"

"The dietary kind."

Shoma winced. Oh, this did not bode well. This did not seem good at all. This most definitely sounded an _awful_ lot like—

"Vegetables. Fruits. Greens. Fresh, healthy foods." Every word stabs through him like the bite of a blade, sharp and unyielding. "Your sodium intake is too high, and your vitamin intake is lacking. It might also been wise to switch out your caffeinated beverages for something more hydrating—water, or fruit juices, electrolyte drinks, vegetable smoothies, things to supplement your mineral consumption."

Shoma bit back a small gag.

"Less red meat; you don't have to cut it out entirely, but taking it down to a couple of meals a week will make a noticeable difference."

Shoma shrank back in his chair. Perhaps all the awful symptoms to come would be better. He _already_ had trouble sleeping, and he hit his head often enough that headaches didn't seem like _that_ much of a problem, and how bad was kidney failure anyway? Did he even need his kidneys to skate? Shoma didn't think so.

"You can do it gradually," the doctor said, pulling Shoma back into the terrible, horrible present. He gripped the seat of his chair, nails scratching against the hard plastic. The doctor eyed him a little sympathetically—Shoma knew how he must look, colourless and muted, eyes wide, mouth dropped open in his shock.

"Here," the doctor said, and he pulled a loose leaf of paper from one of his drawers, flattening it out over the table. "Lets try coming up with some meal plans, okay? And I'm sure your trainer will help you keep it up, once we get you started."

Shoma listened vacantly as the doctor scratched out a rough table on his piece of paper, boxing off segments for different hours of the day, talking almost happily about _cabbage_ and _broccoli_ and _spinach_ , writing steak only twice on his whole weekly plan, the heavy weight of dread seating itself deep within him.

There must be a better way, Shoma thought to himself. There _must_ be.

* * *

Shoma burrowed himself deeper into his coat. The snow, of which inches had been forecast to ring in the new year, had, at least, held off for now, but the air was still bitterly cold, catching Shoma's breath in his chest and misting it on the wind.

"Do we have to?"

"Yes."

"It's late. I'm tired."

"It's New Year's Eve," Itsuki said, pressing both palms into Shoma's back and pushing him along. He debated, briefly, digging in his heels, steadfastly refusing to walk on, but that would no doubt result in Itsuki shoving him face first into the floor, and Shoma didn't much fancy starting the new year with a bloody nose or bust lip.

"We can go tomorrow," Shoma said, hopeful, dragging his feet as Itsuki nudged him on.

"We're going now," Itsuki said. "Because tomorrow, you'll wake up and go straight to the rink, and then you'll come home and shower and eat crap and fall asleep again, and we won't go at all."

Shoma grumbled. He'd love to argue, but Itsuki knew him _alarmingly_ well. There really was no fight to be had.

"It's gonna be busy." He said it like a warning, like the thought of _people_ , hordes of them, might be as off-putting to Itsuki as it was to him.

"It's busy every year," Itsuki said. He'd given up pushing, now, and had instead clamped a hand around Shoma's scarf, dragging him forwards. It was far more effective—Shoma walked much faster, like this, in an attempt to stop the fabric choking too tight around his throat. "And every year you complain, and then we get there and you smell the nikumaki and forget you were bothered at all, until it's time to leave again."

Shoma grit his teeth to bit back a retort. Itsuki was right—again. In truth, Shoma quite liked their shrine visits. He enjoyed the food, and the decoration, and the tradition of it all—but he did not enjoy the _people_ , not at all.

It's not like he's overly misanthropic—Shoma likes people, in general, enjoys company now and then, has fun going out with his friends, when he can, or with his family, it's just...New Years Eve brings out so _many_ of them, and it's so very exhausting. And there's always one, or two, or ten, who recognise him, and once that happens, there's no real stopping it.

Shoma dug his face into his scarf. Itsuki had let him go, now, (rightfully) sure that Shoma would keep going, now that they'd set off.

"We won't stay long, you know that," Itsuki said. His tone was placating, but earnestly so. Shoma hummed into his scarf. "Get in line, say our prayers, grab some food, go home. Same as always."

"Did you bring money?"

"You're the adult with the paying job, _you_ bring the money," Itsuki said. Shoma bit his grin into his scarf.

"I brought money for _me_. You're what, seventeen now? I think I was paying for my own food at seventeen."

Itsuki circled around, and drove his knee into the back of Shoma's thigh.

"It's little brothers who are meant to be _brats_ , asshole," he said. Shoma dodged the dig of Itsuki's elbow into his side, muffling his laughter, and walked on a little quicker, eager, now that they were on the move, to get this whole thing over with.

* * *

The shrine was about as horribly busy as Shoma had expected it to be. Midnight was ticking ever closer, and already the line was trailing part way down the steep, wooden staircase. Despite the chill, some visitors had braved kimonos, and stood in huddles, shivering on their geta. The lanterns, strung the length of the path on both sides of them, cast a soft, flame-warm glow over the intricate silken designs; every little movement made light and shadow dance across the detailing, illuminating tumbling blooms of pale flowers, white petals sitting like snow against the fabric. It was a beautiful reprieve, from the dark, cloud-heavy sky, and the shadowy silhouettes of the trees around them.

Itsuki didn't talk much, as the line trickled down. The clock had struck midnight shortly after they'd settled in line, and after a quiet prayer to himself, Itsuki had pulled out his phone, and loaded up a game to play. Shoma followed suit, but found himself more easily distracted than usual—preoccupied by the chill air nipping at his fingers, gaze caught by the bright shifts of light over silken kimonos, acutely aware of every elbow that knocked into him from either side.

Once or twice, Itsuki started up small, noncommittal conversations.

"What level did you get to?" He asked, as they mounted the top step.

"Not telling."

"Did you get new boots yet? Yours are wrecked.”

"Not yet. They can hold out a little longer."

"Buy me a crepe after," he demanded, looking up from his game to watch longingly as a group of girls breezed past them, lapping cream and strawberries from the top of their own sweet treats.

It felt like hours later, before the shrine itself really came into view. Itsuki tucked his phone into his pocket, then, and burrowed his hands in after it, kicking his feet at the floor.

"Praying for anything specific this year?"

"Good health," Shoma mumbled. He jostled himself on the spot—standing so still was getting to him. Being stationary for too long made him itch, ache, and the desperate need to move, to stretch his legs, was sinking in.

Itsuki grinned slyly at him.

"That because the doctor is trying to make you eat veggies?"

Shoma wrinkled his nose. He most certainly didn't want to start his next year with _that_ thought in mind. Itsuki’s grin widened.

“ _An apple a day keeps the doctor away_ ,” he sing-songed, stepping deftly out of reach in time to avoid the kick Shoma aimed to his shin.

"Apples a fruit," he said, shifting instead to stomp on Itsuki's toes.

"You sure about that?" Itsuki asked, and then yelped, when Shoma ground the ball of his foot down hard onto Itsuki's trapped toes. Truthfully, Shoma wasn't sure at all, and his little brat of a brother knew it. 

"I'm going for a walk," Shoma said, in lieu of a reply. He stepped back, releasing Itsuki's flattened foot, and Itsuki yanked it off the floor and out of reach, tottering a little to keep his balance.

"Wha—the line isn't much longer! I'm not getting out of it, we'll be stuck here for _hours_ , stupid."

"Then you wait here," Shoma said. "I'll come back in a bit."

Itsuki sputtered, scoffed, and Shoma gave him an innocent smile, turning away, and wading a little way into the crowd around them.

"Bring me back some food!" Itsuki's voice called behind him. "I'm starving!"

Shoma waved carelessly over his shoulder.

The press of the crowd, while unpleasant, was somewhat of a blessing. The sheer volume of people meant nobody was really paying any attention to Shoma at all, which left him free to elbow his way through the throng, until he found the edge of the path, and ducked under the stringed lanterns, off the path, out of the way.

Free from the masses, Shoma took a deep breath. The trees were thin, here. Shoma weaved between them absently, until the shadow of the first shrine building fell over him, and then he turned, and pressed deeper into the surrounding forest. Further from the crowds, until the light from the lanterns grew patchy and uneven, little orange beams spidering over the forest floor like rays of evening sunlight. The noise from the festivities sounded distant, here, barely a hum, muffled by thick trunks, gnarled branches, and the frigid air that hung between them.

Drawing to a stop, Shoma stretched. Arched the kinks out of his spine, rolled his neck, shook out his arms and legs; they felt heavy, from all the standing. Disuse made him restless, but the cold made him _stiff._

It felt colder, here, in the shadow of the shrine, without the weight of warm bodies pressed in around him. Shoma huddled deeper into his coat, and cast his gaze around. He could hear the indistinct chatter from within the shrine building, and every now and then, the clang of the bell, the sharp slap of hands on hands, a comfortable monotony as person after person offered up their prayers for the coming year.

Shoma allowed himself to get lost in it, for a little while, lulled by the soothing ebb and flow of sound around him.

"Guess I should head back," he mumbled to himself, watching the line convey people through the shrine doors. Itsuki might just kill him, if they came all this way for nothing. Besides, he really _should_ say his prayer. It’s dumb, maybe, trying to wish away a problem that can be solved by such a simple adjustment, but…

But Shoma really, really hates vegetables.

The flavours are nasty. Too bitter, too potent, or else too mild, bland and tasteless. And the texture: raw, too crunchy, squeaky on his teeth; cooked, too mushy, difficult to swallow. The range of foodstuffs he is willing to not only put in his mouth, but also to chew on and to swallow down, is limited. Meat (cooked right), rice (also cooked right). Chocolate. Cake, sometimes, when the icing is layered thin enough.

Fish, maybe. On a good day.

But meat and rice and chocolate and cake and sometimes fish are not the problem. Vegetables are the problem. Foods that come in greens, purples, yellows, oranges, _greens._ Fresh, crunchy, juicy. Wholly unappetising.

 _An apple a day keeps the doctor away,_ that’s what Itsuki had said. Shoma would really rather not resort to such drastic measures.

Honestly, if it were up to Shoma, he’d be perfectly content to leave the vegetables out. He’s not a _total_ idiot; he takes the right supplements, sometimes, when he remembers to, makes up for the vitamins and minerals and _fibre_ elsewhere. And in an ideal world—where his tests all came back fine and his doctor was a more reasonable, understanding person—that would be enough.

But no. Diagnosis: hypertension. Treatment: spinach.

If his only other option is choking down kale for the rest of forever, praying is at least worth a shot.

He turned to leave, a resigned sigh billowing onto the air before him, but as he moved, the glow from the lanterns shifted. And as it did, something to his side glinted, the light of it catching in the corner of his eye.

He turned back, and cast his gaze about for...whatever it was. A trick of the light, he assumed; a reflection, though there was nothing obviously reflective in sight.

He frowned, tilted his head. There it was again: a twinkle, bright as the wink of a star in the night sky, except, his gaze wasn't aimed up. He was looking down at the ground, at the cold, hard dirt, into the leaf litter, where the little light was flickering. It was…oddly vibrant, for something so small. The glow from the lanterns paled in comparison.

Shoma dropped to a squat, and flicked at the soil with the tip of a finger. There _was_ something, half-buried in the dirt, concealed by fallen leaves and the resilient growth of weeds. Something metal, no bigger than a large coin, dropped and forgotten, swallowed by the elements on the forest floor. With a little manoeuvring and an unpleasant amount of dirt piling under his nails, Shoma managed to dislodge it, plucking it free, settling it into his palm to look more closely.

It was still a little grimy, thick clumps of chill-hardened earth clinging in the crevices, but now that it was out of the ground, Shoma could see that the little metal something was in fact a tiny model of a bow, pulled to full draw, with a tiny little arrow nocked in it, ready to fire.

Shoma tilted the little thing in his palm. The lights from the shrine played across it, but the shift was...strange. Too bright. And all of a sudden, too dim, as though the metal itself had swallowed up the glow, drawn it in to somewhere Shoma could no longer see.

With a nail, he picked away at some of the frozen soil, scratching it away. And once all the clumps were gone, he wiped it against his pants, rubbing the last remnants away until the little bow was clean. He held it up to the light. It twinkled in the flush from the lanterns, though it seemed duller than Shoma had expected, now immersed fully in their glow. But, even as he watched, it seemed to grow brighter, and brighter still, absorbing the soft blaze until it shone with it, an unnatural reflection alighting the skin of Shoma’s palm where the little bow sat, otherwise completely unassuming.

Strange.

Shoma blinked and shook his head. Just a trick of the light, he thought; his tired brain struggling to process. There's no way a tiny twist of metal could shine so brightly.

But…perhaps it was his imagination, but despite the frigid winter air, the charm felt oddly _warm_ against his skin, the soft heat of it chasing away the chill. 

“Weird,” he mumbled, flipping the charm again. He rolled his knuckles over his eyes, pushing back his sleepiness. Blinked rapidly to clear his vision. Looked at the little bow again, and still it glowed, still it warmed him. 

It was a delicate little thing, moulded smoothly, every intricate little detail cut and polished, clean as wave-washed stone. Beautiful, in its own way. Mesmerising. Shoma found it difficult to look away.

Until a noise arose, deafening in the quiet. A shriek, a bark of laughter, and suddenly Shoma was back in the forest, staring down at an unassuming chunk of metal, cooling in his palm.

He’s been here too long. Surely, Itsuki must almost be in the building by now, and Shoma needs desperately to pray for his blood pressure to just...be better, so that he can go buy too much meat and too many sweets from the plentiful stalls, and go home to finally, finally sleep.

Shoma braced his chin on one hand, and sighed at the charm in the other.

“Time to go,” he said. “Maybe if I pray hard enough, this’ll all fix itself.”

The little bow winked up at him, it’s strange radiance warm in his palm. Shoma tipped his head at it. The light shifted, and the little bow flashed up at him, like a sharp, toothy grin. Shoma felt oddly like the little thing was listening to him and, more importantly,  _judging_ him. He huffed out a breath at it, frowning. 

“Yeah, stupid, I guess. I wish I could just, you know, be perfectly healthy _without_ eating vegetables.”

Shoma flicked the tiny charm up into the air. He watched the bright, weaving strings of light it spun as it tumbled over and over, casting the ghost of a glow in its wake, and then he let it fall back to the dirt with a soft _thump_.

He stood, dusting his hands on his pants, and turned once again to leave, when a voice spoke up from somewhere alarmingly close behind him.

“Y’know,” it said, in a purr that raised the hairs on the back of Shoma’s neck, “dropping me was _awfully_ rude of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 pending~ 
> 
> Sorry this is a bit nonsense, I have other fics that are marginally less ridiculous if they are more ur cup of tea! 
> 
> ALSO: if y'all want more regular updates/wips/general chatter and nonsense from me, you can find me on twitter @shomaun_ho :)


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